


A Little Prick

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Humor, Science Experiments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:28:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes decides that Watson will be the ideal vessel for his latest experiment.  As secrets and truths are reluctantly spilled, Watson prays fervently for an antidote.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Prick

I can truly declare that it is a wise man who never permits to being placed to any disadvantage by a friend. For a wise man should immediately foretell the possibility of unpleasantness, and retreat and plan accordingly. However, when a fellow is approached from behind and is therefore blissfully unaware, it is an entirely different matter. 

I may or may not, therefore, be a wise man, for Sherlock Holmes did approach me from behind and I was quite taken unawares.

“Just a little prick, Watson,” said he in my ear.

I felt a small stab of pain.

“Holmes,” I said, twisting round in alarm from my chair, clutching at my upper arm. “What did you just do?”

My friend had scuttled sideways as a nervous crab back to his chemistry table, where he shut the offending implement safely away inside one of the drawers.

“A little prick,” he repeated.

“Yes, I know,” I replied, a little cross and in no small part anxious. “But what _was_ it, and why?”

He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of a glass phial.

“A dribble of this and a thingie of that,” he said. “Quite safe,” he added, in a poor attempt to reassure me.

Rubbing at my violated arm I rose from my chair. Holmes had perched himself upon his chemistry stool; his hands were clasped between his knees. His eyes were intent upon me.

“Watson, don't look so _mutinous_ , this is something that I have been working on for a great many months and I am confident that it will be a resounding success. You should consider yourself a most fortunate fellow to be my initial test subject.” He smiled widely. “I am going to ask you a couple of questions now. Pay attention.”

“Oh god,” I said, lurching back onto the sofa, tugging at my hair in dire dismay. “You injected me with one of your foul experiments. Which one?” My mind raced over the noxious whiffs and vapours that had emanated from that particular corner of our sitting-room these past six months. “Please do not tell me that it is the one that makes a chap bray like a donkey? Or indeed, that odd concoction that makes a man's hair grow at twenty times its rate? At present I can ill afford twice-daily visits to my barber.”

The smile grew wider yet.

“Tell me a secret,” my friend demanded. “A juicy one,” he added as an afterthought.

I raised my eyebrows.

“I shall do nothing of the sort, Holmes, do not be so ridic....” My jaw then suddenly ceased to work. As if to backtrack and regroup, to submit a fresh batch of data. 

“When I was twelve, I often used to apply a red tincture between the first finger and thumb of my left hand to simulate a girl's mouth as near as possible and practise kissing with it,” I blurted.

I clapped both hands to my face in mute horror at what I had just uttered aloud without censor.

Sherlock Holmes threw his head back and let loose a loud, honking bellow of glee.

“Holmes, you absolute and total _swine_ , you have injected me with a _truth serum_ ,” I shouted. “I am not remotely happy about this.”

It was regrettably difficult to make myself heard above my friend's surge of maniacal cackling. Through my hot embarrassment I felt the furious, compelling urge to grab Holmes by his collar and barrel him along the landing and head-first down the stairs. My expression must have conveyed a fraction of my turmoil for he gradually ceased his merriment, transforming it with some degree of difficulty into a contortion of remorse.

“I am most terribly sorry, Watson,” said he, blowing his nose. “But as you can see, the serum works; therefore my research has not been wasted. You should be happy for me.”

“I am not happy. I am going to strangle you,” I informed him. “How long before it wears off?”

“I have no idea,” Holmes replied. “As I already told you, you are its first test subject. I have not yet managed to formulate the antidote.”

I groaned.

“I have a full round of patients today, Holmes,” I said, peering at my pocket watch. “At least three of whom are hypochondriacs who test my patience to the nub on a weekly basis. This does not bode well.”

I strode upstairs to my room to collect my medical bag, thrusting my stethoscope and balsams into it with deep ill humour. I paused to stand in front of my bedroom mirror, to stare most solemnly at my reflection for a moment. Perhaps the day might pass without issue; perhaps I would be asked no difficult questions or be placed in an impossible quandary. Perhaps the serum might not last more than a minute.

Perhaps it had already done its duty.

I returned downstairs and marched forward to Holmes, who was busily pouring his third cup of tea of the morning.

“Ask me another question,” I demanded. “But nothing too sensitive, I beg you.”

He looked up at me with a mischievous face.

“Well now, where's the fun in that?” said he. He stirred his tea thoughtfully. Then, quietly and a little hesitant: “Watson, how far would you go to protect me, if push came to shove?”

“I would take a bullet for you,” I replied immediately. “I would die for you, if necessary.”

My friend's eyes widened. I shifted uncomfortably.

“I had not intended to admit to that last,” I whispered. “Good gracious, Holmes. This bloody serum.”

“Yes,” said he. A pause. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” I replied, red-faced, occupying myself with pulling on my hat and my coat. “I hope you are not expecting a cuddle now. I am terribly late for my first appointment as it is.”

I heard him giggle, resume stirring his tea.

“I shall see you later, my dear fellow,” I told him, and I made my escape to the bracing sanity of the outside world.

The sky was a disconcerting grey-black when I returned from my day's toil, dodging around the detritus and puddles of Baker Street. Heaving myself wearily up the stairs and into the warmth of the room, I took a deep calming breath. Holmes was there, by the fire, feasting on a plate of buttery crumpets. Mrs. Hudson must have taken pity on his compulsive late afternoon craving. He raised his head to me, his lips dripping butter.

“Mwotsan!” said he, his mouth full to bursting. “I have cwumpets!”

“I can see that,” I replied. “And you are making the most terrible mess with them.” I threw my bag down beneath the coat hooks. “I have had a _terrible_ day, Holmes, and that is all that you need to know. Pass me a crumpet immediately.”

He proffered the plate, tentative.

“Did anyone punch you?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes and bit into the moist goodness of the savoury treat.

“No,” I said, “no-one punched me. They are my _patients_ , Holmes, after all. I do not believe that they possessed the requisite energy.” I sighed and chewed. “But several of them became very cross. They asked me questions. I told them home truths. It was dreadful.”

Holmes made a pencil note with buttery fingers upon his pad.

“Is it the custom of a doctor to fib and avoid speaking of the truth?” he enquired curiously.

“No! Well, sometimes. You should meet some of them,” I said, tersely. “You would have a deal lesser patience than myself, I would warrant.”

“No doubt,” said he, his long tongue licking his fingers clean of greasy butter. “Watson, tell me another secret. The juiciest one that you have.”

“No,” I said, swallowing down my last bite. “Go to blazes, Holmes.”

He scribbled a further note upon his paper, pouting.

“The serum appears to have run its course,” he said peevishly. “I must look to increase the strength of the dosage in the future.”

“If you inflict it upon me a further time then I shall not be held responsible for my actions,” I warned him.

“Just a little prick,” said he, sulkily.

“Yes, indeed, sometimes you are, Holmes,” I retorted, as I snatched a second crumpet from the plate. “Without any shadow of a doubt.”


End file.
